


DTF

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: A series of texts and a severe misunderstanding of internet slang leads to Enjolras and Grantaire having wildly different ideas about how their evening is going to pan out...





	DTF

Enjolras didn't know what to do.

Contrary to popular belief, this was not the hitherto unknown phenomenon he would have liked to pretend it was. More often than not, in fact, Enjolras didn't have the slightest idea in hell what he was doing – but he always worked it out.

This, though?

This was uncharted territory even for him.

He stared at his phone, reading and rereading the conversation with Grantaire over and over again. It made him feel sick.

He knew he and Grantaire clashed – nobody would have doubted that. There had always been a sort of weird understanding between the two of them – that understanding being, of course, that there would _never_ be an understanding between them.

It was strange like that, but Enjolras didn't question it. It was as predictable as the changing of the seasons or the turning of the tides; the leaves fell off in the autumn, the birds flew South for the winter, and he and Grantaire argued about everything and anything.

Enjolras had always thought there was no way Grantaire could actually disagree with him as passionately as he claimed to - that instead he just enjoyed riling him up, jabbing at him until he got the desired reaction. Whatever that was.

At least, that's what Enjolras had always thought until _now_.

Because, well, apparently the tension between them was about to come to a head. And Enjolras was going to get his ass kicked.

He'd been joking, of course, when he'd suggested the two of them fight it out. It had been an offhand comment after an exhaustive rant over text, meant to lighten the mood, meant to diffuse the situation...

And then Grantaire had accepted.

More than accepted, really – he'd practically jumped at the chance.

Enjolras hadn't ever imagined Grantaire _actually_ disliked him. He'd thought that was just the rapport they had, the natural order of things.

Sometimes it had even felt suspiciously close to flirting.

Enjolras flushed just thinking about this, embarrassed - clearly he'd been mistaken. Because, generally speaking, people didn't usually want to beat up the person they enjoyed flirting with.

He was going to die.

Grantaire was stronger than him; he knew that without a doubt. He was a boxer – he'd fought with Bahorel every Thursday night for years. He danced, too, and fenced; both very athletic, both likely to leave him tough and, uh, probably more toned than Enjolras should like to think about.

Enjolras, on the other hand? Well he didn't think he had much going for him as far as that was concerned.

He'd always been scrawny, and even a year on testosterone wasn't going to save him now. The T had done wonders, sure – but it couldn't work miracles. He wasn't the weakest member of Les Amis, sure (he doubted Pontmercy would have been able to fight his way out of a paper bag) but he wasn't in the habit of kidding himself. If Grantaire really did want to fight, he was going to wipe the floor with him.

He wondered, briefly, if maybe he'd be allowed a second, the way they did in duels. It seemed only right. Grantaire must have known it wouldn't be a fair fight. Combeferre was tall, and though prone to pacifism he could definitely hold his own – he'd be a good candidate. Or maybe Bahorel, since he was used to sparring with him.

Just as he was thinking this his phone buzzed in his hand, and he glanced down to see a new text from Grantaire.

_'My place at 7 tonight?'_

It seemed like a strange time and place for a fight in Enjolras' opinion, but he wasn't about to question it. Grantaire knew more about these sorts of things than he did.

He let out a shaky sigh, tapping out a response;

_'Sure. Do I need to bring anything?'_

A moment passed, and then those ominous, foreboding little dots appeared on his screen, and the dreaded phrase 'Grantaire is typing' above them.

 _'No,'_ his reply read, _'Just yourself. Unless you have anything you want to bring...?'_

Enjolras swallowed hard;

_'I'll see you at 7'._

 

_-_

 

Grantaire tossed his phone down onto his bed, scrunching up both fists in his hair.

“Oh my god,” he said to himself, out loud, like an idiot, “Oh my _god_.”

He stared at his phone, barely resisting the urge to hurl it out of the nearest window; it felt like that might do him more good than rereading the messages between him and Enjolras.

There was no way this was actually happening; either he was dreaming or Enjolras was playing a very mean joke on him.

Neither of those options made much sense, though; even in his wildest dreams Grantaire wouldn't be ambitious enough to imagine something like this, and Enjolras...well, Enjolras could be insensitive, sure, but not _cruel._ Cruelty wasn't his style. He wasn't the sort of person to play with someone's feelings the way a cat might toy with a wounded mouse. No - he was cuttingly direct and usually said exactly what he meant.

Which meant Grantaire was faced with only one other possibility - that this was _real._

If it was, if this was really happening, then it was further proof that Grantaire had it in for himself. Because really, accepting the offer of a friendly hook-up with the guy he was desperately in love with was just _asking_ to get his feelings hurt.

He had his own heart beating away in his hand, and here he was willingly handing it over to Enjolras for him to stomp on.

He must have hated himself more than he thought.

Sex with Enjolras wasn't something Grantaire had ever thought he'd have to worry about; he was so ridiculously out of his league that it had seemed pointless even letting himself entertain the idea. That wasn't to say he hadn't fantasized about it a couple of times, of course – he was only human.

No, saying that Enjolras was out of his league was an understatement; forget leagues, they weren't even playing the same sport. Enjolras was playing and Grantaire was sitting in worst possible seats in the stadium. 

He glanced at the clock, feeling his stomach do a somersault.

He only had three hours to get ready. No – two hours and fifty-seven minutes. _Fuck._

Grantaire wasn't stupid – he knew there wasn't enough time in the world to make him handsome, but a shower wouldn't hurt, and he'd have to kick everything under his bed to make the room at least a little more welcoming.

He could change the sheets, maybe, and spray a little air freshener, light some candles for mood. Enjolras didn't strike him as a 'rose petals on the bed' kind of guy, but, well, a little effort seemed the least he could do.

Music – that was something people put on to be romantic, right? He opened up his laptop, going to Spotify and searching for a playlist that wouldn't make things excruciatingly awkward. Most of it was a bit _too_ romantic for the situation; he didn't want to scare him off. Finally he settled on a generic 80's hits playlist, thinking at the very least that it might lighten the atmosphere a bit. Besides, everyone liked 80's music, right?

He didn't think he was overthinking things – just being a courteous host. Uh, lover? Friend? Fuckbuddy? The hell if he knew.

Whatever he was to Enjolras he didn't see anything wrong with going out of his way to make the experience more comfortable for everyone involved.

He checked his nightstand for condoms, finding a full pack sitting untouched in his top drawer; a sad testament to single life. Honestly he didn't know why he'd even bothered looking – he knew he had some, and he hadn't had cause to use any of them for...well, longer than he cared to admit.

_Two hours and fifty-five minutes._

He put the nicest sheets he had on his bed, showered, and brushed his teeth - twice, to be certain.

He spent longer deciding on what to wear than he probably should have considering it was only going to come off again, settling on a short-sleeved button up and some jeans that were easy to get out of.

He neatened up his curls as best he could and practically doused himself with cologne before worrying that he might have overdone it; what if Enjolras didn't like the smell? Worse, what if he had some weird allergy Grantaire didn't know about and he broke out in hives from touching him?

Okay – maybe _now_ he was overthinking things.

By the time he was done with all this it was 6:50.

That meant he had ten minutes to wait until Enjolras showed up – if he was on time. If he showed up at all. Maybe he'd had second thoughts; Grantaire would hardly blame him. He picked up his phone, finding that there were no new messages from him. His heart was racing, beating so hard in his chest he thought it might burst out of him like something from 'Alien'.

Nine minutes, and 'Call Me' by Blondie playing from his laptop speakers.

God, he was going to be sick.

 

-

 

Enjolras took a deep breath, steeling himself for a moment before ringing the buzzer on the intercom. There was a long pause, a fuzzy, electrical sort of sound, and then Grantaire's voice came through, about five octaves higher than he remembered it. Maybe it was just the way he sounded over the intercom.

“Hey?”

“Hey,” Enjolras said, “I'm here.”

“Okay, cool, cool, uh – I'll buzz you in.”

“Thanks...”

He was red-faced and out of breath by the time he conquered the three flights of stairs up to Grantaire's apartment; Grantaire was already waiting in the doorway, smoking a cigarette and taking drags off it like it was about to be outlawed. His hand was shaking.

Maybe he was having second thoughts about this whole thing, Enjolras thought; he hoped so. He might be able to retain some dignity if it was Grantaire who called it off.

“You're...dressed interestingly,” Grantaire commented when he saw him, looking him up and down. Enjolras felt himself flush; he'd spent an hour digging the closest thing he had to gym clothes out of the back of his wardrobe and hoping they'd be acceptable. Apparently not.

“Sorry,” He said, “I...I just thought---”

“No, it's fine!” Grantaire said quickly, “It's - fuck, I'm sorry. You look fine. Uh, you look great, in fact.”

Enjolras raised one eyebrow, “Thanks...” he said, eyeing Grantaire's own attire curiously. He didn't look like he was ready for a boxing match – hell, he looked more like he was ready for a night out. It was the most well put together he could ever recall having seen him. Still, it didn't matter; this was Grantaire's apartment, he was probably going to go and change after he'd got there. Maybe he'd even thought Enjolras wouldn't show up. The thought made him puff his chest up a little indignantly.

“You look good too,” he said, “Joly, Bossuet and Chetta out tonight?”

“Yeah, it's date night,” Grantaire informed him, flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, “You want to come in, then, or...?”

“Oh, yeah – of course. We probably shouldn't just do it out here, the neighbours might call the police.”

Grantaire let out a slightly strangled sound at that, stepping aside to let him past, “Hah, yeah, probably...”

Enjolras made his way into the living room, setting down the gym bag he'd brought with him with a sigh, “I hate all those stairs,” he said, “Doesn't the elevator ever work? How does Joly manage with his leg?”

“Sometimes Bossuet has to carry him,” Grantaire said, shrugging, “He thinks it's funny. Very romantic. You're right, though. It's shitty.”

“I'll write to your landlord,” Enjolras vowed, “It's a blatant breach of accessibility laws.”

“Yeah, sure, you do that...” Grantaire said, “What's in there...?”

“Oh,” Enjolras followed his gaze to his bag, “Just a change of clothes – you know, for afterwards. I'll probably be all gross and sweaty.”

Grantaire made the same choked sound, closing the front door behind him, “Uh, wow, um...you thought of everything, I guess...”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Yeah, clearly. I'm sorry, I'm just...surprised.”

Enjolras scowled, “Why?”

“I mean, like...I thought this was your first time...?” Grantaire began awkwardly, suddenly seeming unable to look him in the eyes. It was odd, Enjolras thought.

“It is,” He told him, “But I'm determined.”

“Fuck.”

“Are we going to get started, then?” Enjolras asked, lifting his chin. He didn't want Grantaire to see how nervous he was inside; he didn't want to look like a coward.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so. Do you want to come through to my bedroom, then...?”

“Is that where we're doing it?”

“Christ, Enjolras – you don't have to be so blunt. Yeah, okay?” Grantaire looked like he was about to start hyperventilating at any moment, “We don't want Joly, Boss and Chetta to walk in on us if they come home early...”

Enjolras had to agree; it was hardly good conduct to physically fight one of your friends in your other friends' living room. He supposed the privacy of Grantaire's bedroom made sense.

“Is that 'The Eurythmics' playing?” he asked suddenly, hearing the sound of music drifting down the hallway.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, leading him on, “I thought it might, uh, set the mood, I guess? I can turn it off if you want.”

“No, it's fine – if it helps you get ready then I guess it doesn't bother me.”

Grantaire's bedroom was neater than he'd imagined it – not that he'd imagined it, of course. The bed was made and there were candles burning on the nightstand.

“Your room is nice,” he said, almost automatically.

“Thanks...”

Enjolras looked around for a few more moments before turning to face Grantaire, crossing his arms, “Don't you have something you need to put on?” he asked, gesturing to him with a nod.

Grantaire's face went white – and then red – and his mouth dropped open.

“Put on? I---well, yeah, I...fuck,” he sucked in a deep breath, “Give me a minute, at least. I'd kind of hoped you'd help with that...”

“Why?”

“Ah – never mind. Forget I said it,” Grantaire said, rubbing the back of his neck as though he was uncomfortable. This wasn't what Enjolras had expected – he'd imagined Grantaire would be all cocksure and full of himself about the whole thing, since he'd been the one so enthusiastic about solving their issues with their fists.

“Well, I'm ready, anyway,” Enjolras reported, “Just...go easy on me, okay?”

“Go easy?”

“I don't have any experience, so, like...try not to hurt me too much, okay?”

Grantaire was staring at him, dumbstruck, “ _Too_ much?”

“Well a little is unavoidable, I guess,” Enjolras reasoned, “It comes with the territory.”

“No it doesn't!” Grantaire said, apparently appalled.

“I've seen you with black-eyes and all sorts before!” Enjolras argued; did he think he was an idiot?

“Yeah from boxing with Bahorel, not from _this_ ,”

“How is this different from what you do with Bahorel?”

“How is---?!” Grantaire broke off, freezing suddenly. A look passed over him; a shadow of something, like a veil being lifted back over his eyes.

“Enjolras,” he started, voice suddenly low, “What do you think you're here to do?”

“We're going to fight,” Enjolras said, confused, “Aren't we?”

“I...what?” Grantaire stepped back, horrified, “Why would I want to fight you?”

“Because you don't like me?” Enjolras supplied, thinking the answer should have been obvious.

“Don't like you?!” Grantaire said, “I – that's the furthest thing from the truth! Shit. _Fuck._ Why did you say you were 'DTF' then?!”

“Because I am,” Enjolras said, “'Down To Fight' – I was only joking about us solving the matter that way, but you responded so enthusiastically, and...” he trailed off, tilting his head, “Wait – what did _you_ think I was here for?”

“Uh...” Grantaire's face lost all colour, “It's...well...'DTF' doesn't mean 'Down To Fight'. Who even told you that?”

“Courfeyrac.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, “What an asshole.”

“Why?” Enjolras pressed, completely lost; he had a feeling he had missed something somewhere, he just didn't have the faintest clue what it was, “What does it mean?”

“It means...shit, Enjolras, don't make me say it,” Grantaire begged.

“Grantaire---”

“ _Fuck_. It means 'down to _fuck_ ', Enjolras.”

Enjolras froze. He felt his jaw drop, but he was powerless to stop it. He stared at Grantaire, trying to make sense of what he'd just told him. Abba's 'Gimme Gimme Gimme' started playing in the background, filling the uncomfortable silence with agonizingly inappropriate background music.

“Oh.” he said eventually, managing to force the word out.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, looking down at his feet.

“Well, that's an embarrassing mistake on my part,” Enjolras said, brain working frantically to put everything together, “Wait, so – when you agreed – I – you thought we were going to...?”

His heart leapt up into his throat. That explained the music, the candles, the nice cologne...

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire said instantly, “I'm not trying to be a creep, I promise.”

“But you accepted,” Enjolras whispered, “You were _very_ eager about it...”

“I know – I know that seems bad, but...it's been a while, and...”

“And what?”

Grantaire turned away with a groan, “I can't do this,” he said, raking his nails through his hair. Enjolras loved his hair.

“I didn't want this to come out like this.”

“Didn't want _what_ to come out like this?” Enjolras asked, baffled, “Grantaire...?”

“I'm wild about you, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, finally spinning to face him again, “I've been wild about you since the moment I met you, okay? There. I said it. Now just let me down gently so we can go our separate ways and forget the humiliation of this whole...thing.”

For a moment Enjolras felt as though he'd forgotten how to breathe. Or move. Or think. He could only stand there, staring at Grantaire in shock.

“You – you like me?” he finally stammered out, tongue feeling woefully inadequate in his mouth.

“I more than like you,” Grantaire muttered, “I've got it real bad.”

Enjolras' heart gave a strange flutter.

“But you thought this was going to be a hook-up?” Enjolras said, “if you – if you really like me, why would you agree to that?”

Grantaire gave a half-hearted shrug, “Masochism? Self-hatred? Destructive personality? The hell if I know,” he said, “Maybe I'm just so lonely I'll take whatever I can from you. Anything. Whatever you give me.”

"Grantaire..."

"I'm sorry, Enjolras."

Enjolras couldn't stand it any longer.

He surged forwards, seizing Grantaire by the collar of his fancy button-down and kissing him hard on the mouth; he felt Grantaire's lips part in surprise, but then he melted into it, moaning into Enjolras' mouth. Enjolras felt his hands go to his hips, tentative, unsure of their place, and arched against Grantaire's body in encouragement.

Finally, he broke away.

“I'm sorry,” he said immediately, “I should have asked for permission first,”

“It's okay,” Grantaire breathed, looking a little like he'd just been struck across the back of the head with a baseball bat. He grinned.

“Really. It's okay. It's more than okay – if you want to kiss me again I give my wholehearted consent.”

Enjolras laughed, feeling almost dizzy.

“You smell nice,” he blurted, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, “I was worried you'd hate it.”

“You went to a lot of trouble for me considering you thought it was a one-night-stand,” Enjolras said, looking around the room again. He was still pressed close to Grantaire, so close that he could feel that he was hard in his jeans.

“I guess I wear my heart on my sleeve just a bit,” Grantaire confessed sheepishly, “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Kissing me.”

Enjolras brought one hand up to touch his cheek, feeling his stubble against his palm, “You frustrate me endlessly,” he said, “But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wild about you too.”

Grantaire let out a shaky breath.

“Really?”

“Really,” Enjolras beamed, “And though I, uh...don't know if I'm ready to have sex yet, we can definitely start _something_...” he ran his hand slowly down Grantaire's chest, to the waistband of his jeans, “And it would be a shame to waste all your efforts completely...”

Grantaire swallowed hard; so hard that Enjolras saw the bob of his Adam's apple.

“Yeah?” he said, as Enjolras unzipped his fly, “You sure you wouldn't still rather fight me?”

Enjolras snorted, shoving him away playfully, “Oh fuck _off_!” he said, throwing up his hands, “It's _so_ embarrassing. You're never going to let that go, are you?”

Grantaire shook his head, brown eyes twinkling.

“Never,” he promised.

 


End file.
